The Women who run Owego, NY Published May 14, 2025 in NY Papers

 The Old Coot revisits the “Women Who Run Owego.”

By Merlin Lessler

 I wrote this article in 2005. I asked to have it re-run as a memorial to Pat Williams, who passed away in April. She was walking & running the streets, right up to the start of 2025.    

The Women Who Run Owego!

 You won’t find them in the village office, the town hall or the county legislative chamber, yet these women “run” Owego. They run the streets! You’ve all seen them one time or another – jogging along Route 17C by the Treadway Inn on a rainy morning – sailing past Riverow - coming down the hill by Johnson’s Pools on Route 434 - cresting the rise on Davis Hill or chugging along on Route 96 by the school bus garage. It’s hard to have missed them. And if you’re like me, you’ve always wondered what their “story” was, why they run and who they are. I decided to find out. At the risk of being arrested for stalking, I ran them down. 

 Let me introduce you to the “Owego Six” – the women who run Owego – (as pictured, top row – left to right – Pat Williams, Barb Morrissey, Carol Livermore – bottom row, Irene Graven, Molly Shaw, Amy Pritchard. They all run in the morning, except Barb Morrissey, who prefers the afternoon or early evening. Pat Williams is the early bird. She starts her 10-mile routine at 4-am. Carol Livermore, who also pounds out double-digit miles every day, starts her routine at a more reasonable hour, as does the rest of the Owego Six. Carol puts in several twenty-mile runs, which add up to over 100 miles per week on her internal odometer. Molly, Irene, Amy and Barb usually run about 6 miles or so, though they all are known to throw in a long run when they have the chance. Barb tries to work in a 15-mile stint to keep fit for marathons. She’ll be running her 15^th NY City Marathon on November 6, her 32^nd marathon overall. Amy Pritchard also runs competitively in marathons and other races, but the rest of the women don’t. They only run for fun, for fitness and the pleasure of starting the day on the right foot (excuse the pun). It gets their metabolisms cranked up and helps to burn off excess calories. I’ve watched them run; I know it’s true.

 Livermore and Pritchard started running when they were very young, 8 and 10 respectively. Molly started her running in high school, Pat – after finishing college, Irene when she was in her 20’s; “Marathon” Barb was 31, a smoker and determined to change her ways when she took up jogging and joined her husband on the road. If you add up all the years they’ve been running it exceeds 150. Barb, Carol, Amy and Pat have been at it for 30 years or more. This isn’t a passing fancy; it’s a way of life.

 When they aren’t on the road, running Owego, you can find them hard at work: Irene Graven is the 1^st Assistant Tioga County DA, Barb Morrissey is a nurse at Lourdes Hospital, Molly Shaw is the fruit & vegetable specialist at Cornell Cooperative Extension, Carol Livermore is both an artist and a floral designer, the latter at Ye Olde Country Florist, Amy Pritchard teaches second grade at the O.A. Elementary School in Apalachin and Pat Williams teaches high school English at Tioga Central School.

 I’ve watched them run our town for years and have always admired their grit. They have a work ethic that makes the Postal Creed look pale by comparison. They don’t just run through snow, sleet and the dark of night; they run through blizzards, tropical storms, heat waves and cold snaps where the temperature gets so low that half the cars in town won’t start. But why do they do it - day after day, year after year? It’s not an easy question to answer. It’s an internal force that drives them. It’s automatic, not a thought process. Oh sure, they can recite, and did when I asked, a list of reasons: “It’s good for my heart” – “It’s a way to unwind” – “It gives me the physical strength and mental energy to get me through my life’s other trials” – “As a working mother and a wife it’s time to myself” – “It helps me deal with stress and to lead an active physical life” – “It makes me feel 20 years younger, and much healthier than my non-exercising contemporaries.”

 The unanswered question is – Why do they stick with it and most of the rest of us don’t?   

They don’t know why, but the point is, they do. And, I must confess, when I watch these fleet footed, dedicated women sail past me on the sidewalk, I’m jealous – jealous of their stamina, dedication and grace. It’s no picnic running through the two seasons we have here: winter and monsoons. It “ain’t” no fun to run with sleet stinging your face and sleepy-eyed commuters forcing you off the road. It’s pretty obvious that it’s only a matter of time before these high caliber women will be running a lot more than the streets of Owego. If they ever decide to run the town, not just the streets, they’ve got my vote!

 Update: Barb does most of her running in Florida except when she is in town training for the New York Marathon, Carol walks the sidewalks, but mostly behind the counter at her Coffee & Art Bar on Front St., Irene walks her miles through the village these days, Molly moved to New Zealand, Amy is still at it, running with her gang all around town. Pat’s memory will remain with many of us, forever running through town, She will be missed.

The Old Coot has a new nickname. Maybe? Published in NY on 5/7/25

 The Old Coot tries out a new moniker.

By Merlin Lessler  

I have a new nickname, “Moses.” I was first dubbed with that moniker by my friend, Ray Miller, from Chicago. He fished from the shore on the east coast of Florida. I did it too. Ray is a real fisherman; I’m an imposter. He caught enough Pompano and Whiting, and one time, a shark, to freeze and take home at the end of the snowbird season.

He fished; I walked the beach, one or two miles to the north or south. I moseyed along, with a tall walking stick. He said I looked like Moses coming down the beach, with my hair flying in the wind, a beard, and my stick. I liked it.

Then another guy, in an inland neighborhood I walked through, started calling me Moses too. I liked it even more. Two unrelated opinions. I’m thinking of adopting it as a nickname. I’ve had many over my lifetime. With a name like Merlin, you like being called something different. I started out as a little kid with “Butch” and also “Buckeroo,” which my father called me when he gave me a horseyback ride, or to be precise, “My Little Buckaroo.” I usually wore a cowboy suit and sported two cap pistols. I galloped on my rocking horse, chasing the bad guys.  Everyone in the neighborhood called me Butch. When I started kindergarten, Mrs. Shopper called out our names from her attendance sheet. When she yelled out, “Merlin,” I didn’t raise my hand; I didn’t realize she was talking to me.

Eventually, Butch faded away. And, I collected other nicknames: Les, Merl, Nick (I gave myself that one when I was eleven), Knurling (I got that in machine shop because I put a knurling grip using a lathe on all my projects). When I had a paper route and went door to door to collect the 45 cent weekly fee, I was called, “That kid who delivers our paper is at the door.” The customers who referred to me that way, made me come back two or three times before they coughed up the dough, handing me a half-dollar and never saying, “Keep the change, Kid.”

When I started writing my Old Coot articles in 2002, it became what I thought was my last nickname, “Old Coot” or just plain,  ”Coot.” I’m fine with that, but the more I think about it, the more I like Moses. I think I just might give it a test run.

Definitions: - #1 “Dubbed” – an unofficial name or nickname given to someone or something.

#2 “Moniker”- a nickname or pet name for a person.

The Old Coot is censored. Published in NY on April 30,2025

 The Old Coot shuts his mouth.

By Merlin Lessler

When I was younger, in my sixties, my wife gave me a Fitbit for Christmas. It was an early version; it didn’t do all the stuff they do today. I used it to count steps and check my heart rate. Its purpose was to nag me until I moved my body. “If you don’t move it, you will lose it.” True? It was pretty effective for several years. Eventually, after more than a decade I learned that even if you move it, vou still lose it, just at a slower rate. Who’s kidding who?

Even so, that primitive step counter was highly effective in developing “move” habits. Now, I need a different type of Artificial Intelligence monitoring me. A device that can listen to what I say and count, several, select, old man phrases. A sentence that starts with, “I used to…..” for instance. Nobody cares what you “used” to do.

Even worse, are sentences that start with, “I shudda,” as in, “I should have done X, Y or Z.” Shudda is a regret that nobody cares about but you. This Fitbit phrase monitor that I envision, will keep score as I go through the day and sound an alarm when I surpass a preset limit. It will also produce weekly charts to remind me to work harder to eliminate those “taboo” phrases.

Eventually it will help me to be somewhat more welcome in group conversations. It might even stop people from looking at their watches when I babble out of control and then say, “Oh gosh; I have to run.” There are a few other phrases that will be monitored, such as: “What’s his name?” and “They” say… Who are “they” by the way? And, when did “they” become the ultimate authority?

I have to stop right here; I’ve already exceeded my daily quotas, and it’s only 10 am.

Comments, complaints? Send to paper or to mlessler7@gmail.com

The old coot is an early shopper. Article # 1127 Published in NY Papers on 04/23/25

 The Old Coot is ready for Christmas.

By Merlin Lessler

It’s a little early for Christmas, for most people, but not for old coots. If we can get our “better half” to get on board. I like that “better half,” but out of date term. It covers all forms of relationships between two people. It used to only be used by men who had been scolded for referring to their wives as, “My old lady.” Smart ones switched to “better half.”

Anyhow, if the two of you can agree, now is the time to start shopping for Christmas. With an old coot twist. You buy your own present, not your mates. Just think of the pressure that would eliminate. You don’t have to fry your brain to come up with something thoughtful and appreciated. Something that most old coots fail to accomplish. We often put it off until December 24^th. Talk about pressure.

Buy yourself a nice gift, something you can wear or a tool you always wanted. Buy it; wrap it; stick it in the back of your closet; do this by Labor Day. By the time December 25^th rolls around, you will have forgotten what’s in the box. You won’t have to fake surprise and delight when you open it. It takes all the agony out of the holidays, and for once, your “old lady” will get something nice, and you won’t get tickets to the opera.

Comments? Send to mlessler7@gmail.com    

The Old Coot is from the green generation. (Published April 16, 2025 in NY Papers)

The Old Coot is “green” with envy.

By Merlin Lessler

I pulled a loaf of bread out of the cupboard the other day. It had been there for the better part of the week, so I checked it for that greenish, bluish sign of mold. None! It wasn’t like this growing up. Bread would start turning green after a day or so. I know.  I was my family’s “bread man.” Every other day, my mother handed me a cloth sack with a draw string closure and said, “Go over to Bill Scales grocery store on Pennsylvania Ave and get a loaf of Spaulding bread. Off I would go on my bicycle, with a dime and a penny in the bag, swinging from my handlebars. The dime was for bread; the penny for a piece of Fleer, Double-Bubble Gum. I liked it better than Bazooka Bubble Gum because it came with a tiny comic strip inside the wrapper. I would stop at the top of Moore Ave on the way home to pull a slice out of the middle of the loaf, hoping my mother wouldn’t notice. It was so good when it was fresh. I couldn’t stop myself.  I still do that to this day when I buy bread from a bakery. I can never wait till I get home. Same thing when I pick up a pizza. It’s never perfectly round when it gets to our kitchen. 

 There aren’t many neighborhood bakeries around anymore. They’ve disappeared, just like the neighborhood grocery stores and neighborhood schools. Life was on a smaller scale back then. We walked to Longfellow Elementary School every day. Walked back home for lunch, and back to school again. We got as much education on the sidewalks along the route as we did in the classroom. Even when we graduated and moved up to junior high, we still walked to Longfellow, to catch one of the two buses to the junior high on the other side of town.

But, oh those “good old days.” Back in the 1940’s and 50’s. I started walking to school with my friend Woody when we were five years old. Our parents weren’t involved, except to say good bye and be careful, on our way out the door. Quite a different world! But, back to the bread. Today’s bread, made in factories, that doesn’t turn green. Mothers don’t have to cut moldy crusts off before making their children peanut butter & jelly sandwiches. The aging process in bread is virtually eliminated, by preservatives. I just wish those preservatives did the same thing for me when I consumed the loaf.?

Comments?  Complaints? Send to the paper or to me at mlessler7@gmail.com      

Why is the Old Coot stressed? Published in New York and Pennsylvania on April 9, 2025

 The Old Coot is stressed out for no reason.

By Merlin Lessler

 Us old coots are a creative bunch. We’ve gone through our childhood into adulthood and on to old coothood (which is similar to our childhood years) – Retired - on Social Security - Medicare and a pension (if we’re lucky). Our kids are grown, grandkids too. Life is simple, not a care in the world. Stress free!

 Or, should I say- seemingly stress free. In truth, we’re more stressed than anytime in our lives. We create it. Doctor’s appointment today! Will we get there on time? Will we run into a traffic jam? Will we find a parking spot? Will there be a line at the check in counter? A seat in the waiting room? All that, before we even get to the day of the appointment.

 But, we do get there. Miraculously! Half an hour early. Then we wait. What seems like an hour, looking around the room knowing every person there is ahead of us. Finally, we get escorted to the “little room.” An aide quizzes us, a bunch of, how are you doing and why are you here questions and then grabs your arm and squeezes it in what feels like a vice to get your blood pressure. Which is always high at that moment, at least for me. How could it not be, with all the stress of getting there? You explain it’s not high when we check it at home. They turn away, roll their eyes, and tell you they’ll take it again so they can let you go home. MORE STRESS!

 Now comes the hard part, waiting for the doctor. Or, more commonly today, a physician’s assistant or a nurse practitioner. How long will I wait? Will I remember all the things I wanted to ask? We have written them down, but when we pull the note out of our pocket, it’s the grocery list. The list for the doctor is back home, sitting on the kitchen table.

 So, all that stress to handle a simple task and it bore no fruit. We flunked! We have the exam and remember one or two things we wanted to ask, but know that when we get home, our wife is going to ask what the doctor said about X, Y, and Z. More stress. We say the heck with it, and go to McDonalds and wolf down a Big Mac, fries and a milkshake. No stress now. Cholesterol crowding the “high” line? So what!  We just don’t give a damn.      

 

 

The Old Coot has the side effects, not the benefit. Published in NY State (04/02/2025)

 The Old Coot has the side effects.

By Merlin Lessler

 If you watch regular TV, or even streaming TV, you can’t escape a barrage of ads for prescription drugs. I used to think of drug dealers as guys in back alleys, wearing top coats, selling heroin. Now, it’s pharmaceutical companies on TV pushing legal drugs; some are worse for you than the illegal ones. A lot of the supplements can have adverse effects too, or be of little value, but they aren’t required by the FDA to warn of the side effects.

 My main problem with these ads, as an old coot, is with prescription drugs. I watch the ad promo, but I also listen to the list of possible side effects. It’s hard because they are accompanied by wonderful, but distracting imagery. I may not even take the medicine, but I still experience many of the side effects. I get all the bad and none of the good. If old age had been advertised when I was young, with the possible side effects, I would have been better prepared.

 It should have been a subject in high school, along with the side effects of credit card use and other real life skills. Kids can parrot the state capitals, but can they explain how compound interest can compromise their life style? Or, that they will have to pay a plumber $100 to clean the screen in a faucet that they could do in two minutes themselves.

 I started writing this article to complain that I have some of the side effects of medicines I don’t even take; I ended up complaining about the lack of practical life skills in our school classrooms. I never know where this pen will take me when I sit down to write an article. It’s something Miss Foley, my high school English teacher never taught me, but apparently taught Rod Serling, creator of the Twilight Zone, who was her student too, eighteen years before I sat in the back of her classroom. If she had, or if I had paid attention, you wouldn’t have to suffer when my article wanders all over the place. Or maybe, it’s just an old coot thing. And no, I’m not comparing myself to Rod Serling, just the opposite.